CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE AT THE GRAND HOTEL ET DE MILAN AND AFTER

This is the famous Boldini painting of Verdi that regally rests in the foyer of the Grand Hotel et de Milan. One cannot visit Milan without being affected by Verdi and it is no different in Malarkey’s case, as the Reader will discover anon. The hotel attendants take their luggage up to Verdi’s Suite where, later that evening, Malarkey dresses up to look like Verdi with the same scarf and top hat, which he purchased in the Verdi Gift Shop downstairs.

“Lil, do I look like Verdi?”

Liliana finishes dressing and looks at Malarkey who’s posing as if he were Verdi.

“Yes, but without the talent.”

The comment stings Malarkey.

“Right. Grazie.”

Liliana catches the faux pas.

“You know what I mean. Musical talent.”

“Right. Musical talent. Of course. What else could it be?”

Though Malarkey has a penchant for Mahler, when it comes to opera, no one surpasses Verdi and Malarkey has read some of the best books on Verdi: Phillips-Matz biography; Osborne’s Complete Operas; Willis’s Verdi’s Shakespeare and on and on and on. In some ways, Malarkey admires Verdi more than any other composer for a myriad of reasons some of which will become clear in a subsequent chapter. However, before they leave for dinner, Malarkey returns to wearing his usual garb since he doesn’t want anyone to confuse him with Verdi.

It’s a relatively chilly New Year’s Eve in Milan. Clear skies. 4 degrees Celsius or 39 degrees Fahrenheit depending on whether you’re American or not. Arm in arm, Malarkey and Liliana walk the few blocks to the Ristorante Rigolo for dinner a very unpretentious restaurant as the photo would indicate:

It’s not exactly a hole in the wall, but one might mistake it for one; however the food is magnificent. For appetizers they share Oyster Britain, tuna tartarina with chives and raw shrimp; for first dishes, Liliana orders Risotto alla Milanese expressed with marrow and saffron while Malarkey orders Gragnano spaghetti with seafood and zucchini; followed by Redfish for two with potatoes and olives all accompanied by Brunello di Montalcino 2007 Tenute Silvio Nardi; and topped off with pineapple carpaccio with berry cream for Malarkey and a lemon sorbet with vodka for Liliana. Malarkey is hungry just thinking about what Malarkey ate. After dinner, they nurse a couple of Verduzzo Toblar of Venice Giulia 2008, but even though the dinner was superb, there seems to be a palpable tension in the air. Malarkey could say one could cut the tension with a knife, but that would be redundant so he won’t.

“What’s wrong?” Liliana asks.

“Can’t put my finger on it.”

“Can you put it on me?”

“I could, but it might be pointless.”

Malarkey smiles sheepishly.

“Talk to me, Malcolm.”

“Words escape me at the moment.”

“We’ve not made love since we’ve been here.”

“I’m aware of that. I apologize.”

“I don’t want an apology. I want you.”

There’s a “pregnant pause” during which time Liliana makes a face that reflects something isn’t quite right, but not necessarily with the lack of lovemaking or entrées.

“Damn!” Liliana quietly shouts.

“Damn what? I said I’m sorry.”

“No, I have to take care of something. I’ll be right back.”

She gets up and rushes to the toilet where she wipes herself only discover blood on the toilet paper.

“Fuck.”

Still sitting on the toilet, she starts rummaging through her purse for a tampon or a reasonable facsimile, but can’t find one. She looks again at the blood on the toilet paper and pauses. It is, after all, a reminder of her miscarriage and the fact she’s still not pregnant as she closes in on thirty-seven. It’s not a “bucket list” kind of look, but it is a look of waning expectations. If not waning expectations, then losing expectations. It’s the look of a woman who understands that diamonds may be forever, but eggs are not. She anxiously returns to the table.

“Let’s go!”

“Why? Haven’t finished my Verduzzo Toblar.”

“Fuck the Verduzzo Toblar, we have to go!”

“Right.”

Malarkey hastily pays and they scurry out of the restaurant and walk briskly down Largo Treves. Liliana is in a rush. Malarkey tries to keep up.

“Lili, what is it?”

“My period.”

“So?”

“So, I have no tampons. Is there blood on my skirt?”

Malarkey takes a look. There’s no blood visible, but he admires the view.

“No, but your ass looks …”

“Not the time, Malcolm, not the time.”

Liliana rushes into a nearby pharmacy near the Duomo as Malarkey waits outside looking toward the plaza while workers finish setting up the fireworks for that night outside the Duomo. Momentarily, Liliana walks out.

“Better?”

“It’s not like a cold, Malcolm.”

They walk back to the hotel in relative silence. Malarkey doesn’t have to tell the Reader what Liliana is thinking since the Reader should know what Liliana is thinking. It was alluded to in the toilet. If the Reader has forgotten, please return to the toilet scene and re-read the paragraph. As for what Malarkey is thinking, it’s debatable. No doubt he’s thinking about what he’s going to write in the chapter dealing with what Liliana is thinking. Regardless, the tenor of the time isn’t very festive and any plan they have for celebrating New Year’s Eve at or near the Duomo is as lost as the night itself. From their hotel window, they can see the fireworks exploding from the Piazza del Duomo and hear the residue of live concerts. But Malarkey stands in a bathrobe, hands locked behind his waist, looking at the festivities. Liliana lies on the bed. It’s one of those silence is deafening moments that Malarkey will probably not write about—at least not in this novel. Maybe the next. Or the one after. As a matter of fact, New Year’s Eve comes and goes. After all, New Year’s Eve really isn’t much of an eve and as Malarkey’s father once told him, “What everyone is celebrating is that they’ve survived for another year with or without Guy Lombardo.” Regardless, he walks over to her and they kiss, but it’s more celebratory than amorous.

“Do you love me?” Liliana asks.

“Yes, I love you.”

“Then why don’t I feel like you love me?”

“What would that look like?”

“You’re so good with words, Malcolm, why not with feelings?”

“Because words are easy to write and easier to erase.”

“And feelings?”

“Feelings have a short shelf life.”

“So do some relationships.”

Malarkey turns and looks over his shoulder.

“I am what I am, Lili. I don’t know any other way to be.”

Malarkey climbs into bed and she snuggles next to him.

“Malcolm?”

“Yes”.

“I’m sorry I said those things about, you know, about Verdi.”

“No apologies where none are necessary. I’m certain that Verdi wasn’t offended.”

She puts her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. There’s no need to go into the details of what they’re feeling at that moment since Malarkey has alluded to it. Liliana slowly seeps into that slumber that belies something comforting as Malarkey continues to watch the fireworks and as they slowly dissipate into a kind of confetti of multi-colored detritus, he too falls asleep.

And then, Malarkey has a dream, a dream that haunts him to this day. It takes place in the dining hall of Christ Church College, Oxford. There’s a banner that hangs from the ceiling that merely reads “Reunion,” but of what type it’s not stated nor is there a year. It’s a black banner with white letters, written in large Old English font with the letters R and n smeared as if the letters had little time to dry. He remembers that very clearly. The hall is filled with men and women of Malarkey’s age, all of them wearing black, but not just black, but a faded black, a black dyed in the colors of mourning and all of them have aged much more than Malarkey, have aged to such a degree one might say they’re on the verge of looking macabre.

His peers appear to be in positions of frozen time, frozen in poses of walking, of eating, of talking, of everything but laughing or smiling or enjoying what one might consider the reason for attending a reunion. Even the once most attractive of them, the women for which he may have been the most enamored, have now surrendered to the fatigue of age. Malarkey, dressed as he usually is, that is, somewhat shabbily, carelessly, with a faded-green corduroy sport coat with patched elbows, a fading blue work shirt, missing buttons, faded jeans, makes his way between and around his peers being exceedingly careful not to bump into them for fear they will fall and crack or splinter or dissolve into the atoms that they are. A cold wind makes a shrill noise howling in and out of the paneled dining hall as Malarkey walks with trepidation toward the opposite end of the dining room. The long tables have been removed and what is in their place are round tables with black linens and black-draped folding chairs, black utensils, glasses filled with black liquid. It reminds Malarkey of a novel by Huysmans.

At the end of the room, where the high tables would be, Malarkey sees Liliana standing in the middle of the riser, but she’s not the Liliana he knows and loves, instead, she’s a Liliana who looks remarkably like Miss Havisham: dressed in rich materials, satins, lace, and silks, but all in an aging yellow-white. She wears a long yellow-white veil, her white hair adorned with dried bridal flowers. Some bright jewels sparkle on her neck and on her hands while other jewels lay on a table beside her. She only wears one shoe, the other is missing; her hose is snared and holey; her veil is but half arranged and shreds of lace cover her breasts. Trinkets lay on the table next to her engagement ring exposed through parchment. Malarkey approaches her, but as he does, she stands expressionless. Her expressionlessness doesn’t deter him. In his excitement to see her, he rushes to and embraces her. She embraces him as well, but when he pulls her closer to him, she suddenly decays and, like sand in an hourglass, sifts in fragments to the floor, a floor in which she only exists as a pile of yellow-white detritus.

Startled awake by the nightmare, Malarkey looks longingly at Liliana as a way of reconstituting her being, of making her whole again, climbs out of bed and sits in a chair by the window. Malarkey gazes at Liliana who’s sleeping peacefully unaware of the almost palpable horror Malarkey has just experienced. Malarkey puts his hand over his mouth and continues to look at her until he passes out and sleeps fitfully until dawn. After he awakes, he dresses as Liliana continues to sleep. He kisses her on the forehead and leaves the hotel room.